


shine a light

by tribunal



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Blood, F/M, Gen, I just keep referencing things that happen in Asya and Frey's story without actually writing it, Mild Language, implied pining, just two dudes in the Whitetails hunting and shooting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 18:43:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16918278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tribunal/pseuds/tribunal
Summary: Since she damn near spoon-fed him bullets from his own .50 cal, he’d became near mindless in this pursuit of steady ground. She threw him off balance, same as he did to her; time to come to a wary alliance. Which, apparently, involved traipsing after deer in quickly-cooling weather.





	shine a light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lowtides](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowtides/gifts), [outranks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/outranks/gifts).



> For [outranks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/outranks/pseuds/outranks) and [lowtides](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowtides/pseuds/lowtides)
> 
> for the hozier prompt fill: "it's bloody and raw, but i hear it's sweet"

Asya’s got ten throwing knives on her person, strapped haphazardly to her person with all the grace of someone several times more determined than she’s ever claimed to be. They’ve been checked once, twice, calloused fingertips running over their steady weight affixed to thick thighs, eyelids sliding closed as she counts.

The bow and arrows tucked gingerly against her back were a gift from Jess, a parcel left on her claimed stretch of Seed Ranch, signed with nothing more than her initials in the huntress’ scraggly handwriting. The Deputy hasn’t used anything since, has kept the compound bow just as close to her as the pictures littering her wallet, the important things in life. Now, she unlatches it from her back, flexes fingers around the grip in some tired attempt at leeching warmth back into her bones. Montana’s _fucking_ cold, too cold for the southerner’s blood; not for the first time, she wonders just exactly _how_ these Georgia boys have survived winters up here.

“Planning on coming up sometime this year, Rook?” The voice is husky, smoker’s quality that’s not even remotely affected by the drastic weather change, not even the earliness of the day changing Jacob’s pitch a hair from that tone of perpetual annoyance. Asya curls her hand around the bow once more, checking dreadlocked hair with her free hand, making sure the wiry locks stay firmly in their bun.

“Know you’re getting up there, old man,” Her tongue flicks out to wet chapped lips. Lord above, what she wouldn’t give for chapstick. Poor planning had her thinking it’d be fine to leave it back at Resistance base of operations while she went out cavorting with the enemy, foolhardiness making her think it wouldn’t take but one goddamn minute for whatever the eldest Seed brother wanted from her. “But a year? Think death won’t wait a little longer?”

He had hunting in mind, and, yeah, of course he did. Since she damn near spoon-fed him bullets from his own .50 cal, he’d became near mindless in this pursuit of steady ground. She threw him off balance, same as he did to her; time to come to a wary alliance. Which, apparently, involved traipsing after deer in quickly-cooling weather.

Naturally.

He clucks at her, tongue tapping the back of the chipped ivory of a tooth, disapproval wrinkling his nose. Once, Asya recalls, she told him she thought that particular quirk cute, much to his chagrin. Even now, if she thinks on it, she can remember the exact moment it dawned on him. The slight heat in his features she could have marked up to the winds buffetting them (but hadn’t), but the narrowing of his eyes paired with the quick about-face was too obvious to put aside.

In a curious way, he’s charming. That had been obvious as soon as she stepped foot into the Whitetails, his crooning voice beckoning over the radio. But—with this tenuous peace separating them from the skin of each other’s throats—there is a different charm about him, that of a man than the monster who skin he wears.

“You sure you wanna bring that gun? Thought you’d think it bad luck by now.” Free hand tinted ochre points to that red, red rifle slung on his back, the constant reminder of her victory. His sour expression smooths out into blandness, neither dismay nor approval this time around, and Asya’s not fluent enough in the language of Jacob to know exactly what _that_ reaction means. But he hefts that rifle in the breadth of his hands regardless of lack of expression, scarred hands moving deftly against the safety, clicking it off with a resounding noise. It echoes in the eerie silence of the forests; Asya has a moment to wonder—in the resulting quietude—if their planned hunt’s been ruined by his propensity towards the extra.

The _guess not_ doesn’t pass her lips in truth, but it’s implied in the rolling of her eyes and the shifting of her hands. She leans her weight down low, knees—for once—not cringing in protest. Jacob, likewise, does the same, kneeling in those fatigues that blend so well with the backdrop of Montana scenery. There is no sound between them save for the exhalation of breath, though that, too, is muted so as to not startle the wildlife.

Asya’s first shot is miscalculated, ends up embedded in the thickness of wood as opposed to the keen-eyed deer next to it, mindlessly grazing, as ravenous as it dares. Jacob shoots her an exasperated look, a look of “really?“, a look of “and _you_ almost killed me?” and she finds it isn’t even within her to be sheepish, not anymore. Annoyance doesn’t even flit across her mind, just raw determination that’s gotten her to Hope County, to the leadership spot of the Resistance. What’s a deer to that?

Finger goes up, tastes the air. Just slightly shy of where she did aim, she takes the second shot, full lips curving upwards when she hears the meaty _thunk_ of arrow finding flesh. She raises a brow back to the eldest Seed, sepia gaze dancing with mirth, with the unsaid pride.

Of course he’s not looking, instead punching out the too-loud sound of a bullet from his rifle. If he was noisy before, he’s impossible now, the shock of the shell’s noise enough to scatter birds to and fro.

Aloud, Asya speaks, voice somehow louder than the ringing in her ears: “Better have shot something.”

He shrugs, as though it could be questioned (has he ever hunted an animal not bipedal in his life?), slings that rifle back over his shoulder, and approaches his kill the same way Deputy Okoro’s approaching hers, with wary respect.

She’s never liked this whole process, not before Hope County (where her mother had to pull her crying body away from _mere meat_ with resignation in her eyes) and certainly not after (where the youngest Seed’s greed made it a damn necessity to brave the wilds for something on one’s plate). Though horror faded away to skill, the innocence of these creatures never left her mind.

So she ends it quickly, a jab to the neck with one of those knives, unlatched from her thighs with surety, twisting a bit just to be sure. Lifeblood cools on her fingertips and she whispers—under her breath—a prayer for the departed. As her father would have asked of her.

When she opens her eyes, Jacob is there, knowing look in those blue eyes as though he’s known her—known in a biblical sense, down to her soul and beyond. He’s moved faster than her, displaying a speed that’s completely at odds with the large solidity of him, the broadness of his shoulders. He’s holding out the still-beating heart of his kill, that furious organ relentless in his pale, pale grip. There is a wild look in his eyes, something unshackled and _needy_ , something that demands to not be denied.

He presses that heart into Asya’s now lax hands, eyes on her own the entire time. “ _It’s bloody and raw_ ,” his pause is weighty, waiting on her to finally pick up the heart in her own hands, “ _But I hear it’s sweet_.”

“You hear?” Disbelief colors her tone, but she’s learned from the eldest Seed, knows he’ll hound her on the radio, reveal she hasn’t quite killed him to the Resistance, call her decisions into question. And part of her knows this is meant to be more than it appears, nothing is ever simple with this jackass. So she takes the heart to her teeth, pinches down into arterial blood, staunchly ignores that blow-out of blue in his eyes; too dark, too indecipherable. Not today’s problem.

When she hands it back, he swipes a tongue over his lower lip, brings a finger to where she’s bitten, to where blood still flows freely.

His eyes are still on her when he bites down, right next to her own teeth marks.


End file.
